<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Pearls Beyond Price by Vulgarweed</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793696">Pearls Beyond Price</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed'>Vulgarweed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Reichenbach, Suggestion of Collaring, Threesome - F/M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:55:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-divergence AU set about a month after "The Empty House" — in this world, Watson had only one sad bereavement during Holmes's hiatus, not two. And the one he had, as we all know, was repaired against all hope. After Holmes makes his dramatic return, Dr. and Mrs. Watson both decide to keep him. Forever. But that requires a complex courtship.</p><p>Huge thanks to my beta <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorinda_chancellor">fiorinda_chancellor</a>!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pearls Beyond Price</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyeverafter72/gifts">happyeverafter72</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>"You should go to him, John," Mary said, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Had I been that obvious? Of course I had. To Mary, I was nearly as much of an open book as I was to the man I could not banish from my thoughts. There I was, gazing out the rain-streaked window, with my chin in my hand and my heart in my bowels. That is a metaphor that a decent editor would excise straightaway. But I had not had the stomach to write up a tale for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Strand</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a very long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?" I demanded, displeased with the surliness in my own voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you are so much happier when you see him," she said brightly. "If not for your sake and his, then you should do so at least for mine, for your moping is also darkening my own spirits. And if, as you say, you wish to thank me for my kindness when you were grieving him, when you thought he was dead, the reward I choose is that you should allow yourself to feel the full joy of knowing him to be alive. Most mourners never get their loved one back in this world. You are one of the lucky few."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I started to object, but held myself in check. There was nothing in what she said that was wrong. She was never one to cling to anger — and if I thought too long about her, her long illness and how close she had come to seeing that shoreline of the other world herself — I would wallow again in my grief that was nearly doubled. But if anyone could catch a glimpse of her own death, and then return to life yet more fiercely oriented to love and forgiveness than ever before, it would be she.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not saying you are wrong to be angry with him," she went on. "But have it out with him. I don't know him as well as you do, but I am very certain he's suffering too. Have it out. Don't throw away your second chance."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, she settled herself down in her favourite chair with a novel, and would speak no more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had been given my marching orders. Being an independent man, a lone wolf, is not my forte, I have found — I flourish most in the camaraderie of a pack, and in the service of a strong and compassionate commander. One whose demands of me I can see in my own judgment are correct and just, even if I chafe against them at first in my own pride or lack of immediate understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, after some decent interval of time had passed, I stood up. I stretched and cracked my knuckles. She favoured me with a little smile. I put on my hat and my long coat, and took up my umbrella. And for the first time since weeks had passed after the arrest of Sebastian Moran, I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to 221B Baker Street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson's expression when she answered the door was nothing short of rapturous. Far from the tense confrontation I had expected, she drew me into her arms and kissed my cheek. She had always been reserved when I dwelt there, but she greeted me now like a mother embracing a prodigal child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's here," she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn't need to, for as I stood in that familiar hallway, I heard a violin — playing a skittering, slightly jarring sort of tune, haunting and unpredictable. There were frequent stops and long pauses, and I realised that he was composing a piece of his own. In my mind's eye I could see his long fingers, dripping ink-drops of notes all over lined paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought I should not interrupt, and I very nearly decided to have tea with Mrs. Hudson and not engage with Holmes at all. But one look in her eyes told me that she would be very disappointed in me if I took that polite coward's way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I started my way up the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew it was me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now the walk up those stairs would be loaded and delicate, and every step heavy with my avoidance and my nerves. The one that squeaked seemed to scream. I never had any privacy of my inner life with him — even unable to see each other, in our old rooms was always where he could read me the best. He would know that my steps became slow and pained. He would know that my hand trembled on my walking stick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I had orders, and there was nothing for it but to go on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door at the top of the stairs was ajar, and it swung open to my lightest touch just like it always had. Holmes was standing by the window, in a shower of dust motes in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. His eyes turned into a happy crinkle when he saw me. "Ah, Watson, I knew it was you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I knew you knew," I said. For a long moment we gazed at each other. There was a certain tension and uncertainty, but for my part, I was mostly angry at myself, for my stubbornness in denying myself the joy I felt at the sight of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, come, sit down, tell me your business," he said briskly, as if expecting me to disappear as randomly as I had come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our two chairs were still in their old place by the fire, unchanged. Almost nothing about the flat had changed. All these years, Mycroft had paid the rent and Mrs. Hudson did nothing except to keep the worst of the dust at bay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought of all the speeches I had prepared in my mind as I rode the cab through the familiar streets. All the ways I had devised of deflecting my true purpose. Asking about his little problems and weaseling my way into them. But looking at him, I realised that was what he expected me to do, because that was what I always had done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that would be completely insufficient for the real problem I had come to solve, which did not involve anyone but Holmes and me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I simply blurted out, "I miss you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on his face went through many quick changes, easily missable by someone who had not spent as much time with him as I had. I saw his sharp shoulders tense, and then relax — a very small motion, but one that was important to me. "And I you, Watson," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"For three years we missed each other, did we not?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We did," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then we should be done with that," I said, gazing down at the floor, that agonisingly familiar threadbare rug. "Since we don't have to miss one another any more, if we choose not to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made a little sound, not quite a yes or not quite a word at all. "I must agree," he finally said. Yet his face had not yet shed all traces of sadness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marching orders. “So tell me about your latest problem, that should be a good start."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he did. And before the day had turned to dusk, I was lurking behind a building while he interrogated someone, in a disguise that was very good and would certainly have fooled anyone other than me. By the witching hour, we'd run through the streets together. We narrowly avoided a scuffle that could have gone badly for us, and we were glad for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was glad to have the old adventures back. I felt that a door that had been closed to me for so long was now open, and a bright ray of sunshine came through it. And most of all, though, that light was in Holmes's eyes. As we laughed together, and after I listened to a good half hour of his deductions, I felt I needed to tell him the truth. "Mary sent me, you know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes looked surprised by this — and perhaps, a little bit hurt? Quickly I said, "It is not that I didn't wish to come. Of course I did. I was holding out for my broken pride. She knows I am a much happier man with you close beside me, that's all. So she tired of me moping about, missing you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned forward, intrigued. "I would have thought she'd be glad to have me out of her hair, and you to herself, all things considered," he said, with no hint of a grudge. "While I have no doubt you fulfill most of your husbandly duties, surely any woman would tire of her husband running out at all hours of the night, subject to no small degree of danger, at the whims of an eccentric."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I decided to let the matter of 'husbandly duties' slide, for my thoughts went in a lewd direction that was not at all appropriate to the conversation that Holmes and I needed to have. "Mary is exceptional in her wisdom and her generosity, as even you must have noticed," I said. "She believes our work is of great benefit to the world — and to me. She does not have a jealous nature."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then you are a lucky man indeed," he said, and there was just a hint of wistfulness in that. For all that Holmes seems a machine to those who do not know him well as a man, and are blinded by the razzle-dazzle of his intellect, he has become an increasingly open book to me. Mary has encouraged me to trust my own judgment rather more than Holmes ever has done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am," I said. "Perhaps even more than you fully understand. You do not even now fully appreciate what a miracle your resurrection was to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"To keep that secret so long was inexcusable cruelty on my part," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, most certainly it was. But not unforgivable. To have a loved one back from the grave is a gift few receive, and it would be churlish of me to refuse it. Mary has told me that if I choose not to invite you to dinner at our house myself, I may use her as a cover and insist that it was upon her orders that you should come. I don't feel like hiding behind that, so the invitation is certainly from both of us."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Holmes came up the stairs to our flat, he was briefly thrown by the absence of his dear Watson </span>
  <span>— but </span>
  <span>seduced by the scent of my very excellent (if I dare say so myself) pot roast. I had given our cook the night off. I wanted to do this for him myself. I could tell by the twitch of his nose and his glance to the sideboard that he was hungry. This was a good sign to me. In John's writings, he often comes across as a sort of ascetic monk — by design, I am sure. Still, he is a human being, with hungers that are natural to that condition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look he gave me was quizzical, when he didn't see John. And yes, disappointed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so sorry," I said. "John got a call from a neighbour that her husband was in great distress. He had to rush to his aid, I'm sure you understand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes nodded, and said, "He's a very good man, our Watson, isn't he? I should go then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The very best, of course — but don't you dare leave, please," I reached out to lightly touch his forearm. I may have overreached a bit there, but all the strict rules of propriety as we know them are largely based in hiding true intentions. I wanted to stay within those bounds — while also giving a master of deduction a hint of my true intentions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked briefly flustered, and so I continued, pushing just a little bit beyond what I ought to have dared. "Mr. Holmes. John has always said you’re Bohemian in spirit — why so concerned about propriety all of a sudden? You are a good man, and I am a good woman, so this is really not at all something we need to be concerned about, is it? I cooked this myself, I'll have you know — yes, of course I know how — and I won't have it go unappreciated and send you back to your lonely flat on an empty stomach. We'll save some for John, of course, but let's not let it go cold, shall we?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked at me, and then he finally nodded. "Of course, you're right." His friend's absence had badly thrown him, I could tell. Yet I know that he was not completely inept at making conversation when it served his own purposes, and I knew that, as unhappy as he was to see John married, he thought me a worthy match, and that had to count for something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lured him to the table and poured us each a glass of wine, and said, "Honestly, I'm glad to have the chance to get a word in edgewise, and ask you some questions. I know your...absence...is, well, a bit of a sore spot between you and my husband, and...I have to say, understandably so. But I don't wish to dwell on it tonight. Without him here, I can tell you that your travels sound absolutely fascinating, and I would love to hear some stories."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We talked, and we ate, and we sipped wine. As Holmes talked about his adventures, I perked up, attuned to every word, and I told some stories of my own that he had not heard. He really had a most excellent run of exploration, and was also a very skilled listener, which I have found is a rare skill in men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John's footsteps first fell on the stairs, Holmes heard it first. As he came up, Holmes's face changed. John came through the door, and gave us a little smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"All is well?" I asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, darling," John said, bending to kiss my cheek as he swept up a thin slice of cooling meat on a fork straight into his mouth. "Ravenous."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of the corner of our eyes, we both watched Holmes realising that John had not been with a patient at all — in fact, he smelt quite a bit of ale and cigars. A strange sliver of miniature emotions swept across Holmes's face — and among them were confusion, puzzlement, and a heartbreaking glimpse of hurt. For he knew immediately that he had been lied to. And that, for some reason, John had chosen to forego his company, for a reason that was no emergency at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should be going," he said primly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wish you'd stay," said John. "Just a little while longer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes stood up, and collected his hat and coat. Swiftly, with just a little speed of the old campaigner, John was at his side. "It's a puzzle," he said. "A puzzle for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glance passed between them, quick and ineffable. I rose to join them, and extended my hand for Holmes to kiss. Which he did, in perfect style. I felt a little shiver of frisson at the barest touch of his lips. "My compliments to the chef," Holmes said softly. "It was a delightful evening."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought so too," I said, and held his gaze, and then glanced at my husband, who was gazing at Holmes. "I have great faith in you to solve this."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave us both just one more searching long glance, and then he nodded his head and departed. We listened for his footsteps down the stairs, and then the shout to the hansom cab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How did it go?" John asked me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fairly well, I thought," I said. "He was disappointed that you weren't here, and hurt when he realised we'd tricked him. But our ruse was so tiny compared to his, and when he reaches his right mind, he'll know that. And, I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about his adventures abroad. If you should happen to get past your anger and listen to his stories, they're very lively."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You played your part very well, my dear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who's to say I was playing a part? He's a fascinating man, and very attractive, truth be told."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John gave me a strange look then, and I decided to pour myself another small glass, and compel him to eat more. He had that testy manner of a boy who is hungry and grumpy. When he had loaded up well on his favourite roast and potatoes, I decided to tease just a bit. "Did you think I was only playing match-maker for the two of you, with nothing in it for me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well-fed and well-humoured now, he said, "Darling, I wouldn't have been shocked to find you with your skirts hitched up and riding him on the suttee."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would not have been shocked to find myself doing that either, but Holmes is of a different mold. He's a skittish bird who must be courted carefully."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That sounds like you're expecting me to do the courting," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If I gave the slightest of an exasperated sigh at that, I cannot be blamed. "From what you've written about his regard of women, I am hardly qualified. Even if our plan succeeds, I will be pleasantly surprised to receive the most minimal of attentions from him, and would never prevail upon him to give them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John started to stammer and object, "If I have ever given the impression, in anything I've written or said, that he doesn't respect — "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've never had any cause to question his </span>
  <em>
    <span>respect </span>
  </em>
  <span>for women, you ninny. What I suspect he lacks is </span>
  <em>
    <span>desire</span>
  </em>
  <span> for us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat down and exhaled heavily. "And that...doesn't repel you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I am not so vain that I expect every man to fall in love with me with a bat of my eyelashes, John. Nor am I so unobservant that I can't see what's in front of me. He is a man who is more likely to fall in love with another man. As he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>done. As you know. And you, of course, are one likely to fall for one, or another, or both. As you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> done. I am more than happy to court him, to flirt with him, to welcome him - but it is you he craves, not I. All I can give that he wants is my blessing, and you both have that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John leaned back and took my words into consideration. If only he could see how he steepled his fingertips together, in a posture he had clearly learned from mirroring his beloved friend. In a different, less fraught conversation, I might even have drawn his attention to it. But I would not. Finally he gave a little smile. "I have certainly...never given you reason to doubt my own desire for you. Have I? I swear to you, if I ever leave your needs unmet..."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That I could not allow to stand. His vivid imagery had planted an idea on my mind, and with one unhesitant motion, I was in his lap straddling him, my skirts bundled up rather awkwardly upon the legs of the arm chair. He gave a most pleased sound, and an appreciative wriggle beneath me.  "Your ardor all but woke me from my deathbed," I said, laughing at his indignant expression. "How can you think I'd begrudge another? To let a lonely man starve when I am in possession of such riches? It would be most un-Christian of me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Best not bring such an argument to the vicar," he said with a warm chuckle, just before I swept down and kissed him, tasting brandy and beef and delight upon him, his mustache tickling my lip in that awkward but delightful way that always so strangely aroused me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips yielded to my tongue, and his neck fit into the palms of my hands, pulsing strongly. His hands cradled my hips beneath my skirts and pulled me against him. We could stay this way for a long time, rocking together slowly but with increasing force until the desire became unbearable — but I had a more sophisticated sport in mind. With a little laugh, I pulled away and stepped back on the floor — surveying his flushed, handsome face, his hair I had so skilfully mussed, the curving bulge in his trousers. "To bed," I said. "And if you do as I ask, there'll be a special treat in it for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I serve and obey," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You do, very well." I took his hand and pulled him with me into the bedroom, starting to pick at my clothing as I did so. No matter how elaborate my dress — and it was not particularly such, that night: I wanted Holmes to see me as a woman of substance and not of flash — I had no need of a lady's maid, for I had trained my husband in every nuance of a lady's wardrobe. To see that rough campaigner thread my corset lacings with such delicacy and patience — oh, how his old regiment might laugh. Yet also, I hope, give them envy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wore just a shift when I sat down on the bed and began undressing John starting with his belt. What is that saying, "A lady in the streets, a whore in the sheets?" Not to disparage those of my sisters who do evening work, for skill is required in their profession. Who am I, to be ashamed to learn such skills? A little touch of my mouth, a sense that I have not yet had my full dessert and I still hunger, is enough to bring a strong man to his knees. Which is one place where I very much like him to be. My John, always so eager to please. His broad shoulders and strong chest, his shirt open and bracers sliding down one arm as I help him shimmy out of everything. My shift over my head and thrown aside, and his weight, gentle, nudging me back. Between my thighs, he feasted with enthusiasm and brought me to the first climax I had earned. And for his prize, I led him into me with strong pressure on his firm rear, grasping hard to know I would not be denied and I wanted no coy hesitance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We moved together, in the rhythm we'd established so well. He filled me so perfectly, and yet he understood that I needed to use my fingers to get myself to crisis, even when he was in me, and never begrudged it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I also had a secret to tell. Obviously this was not the right time, as we strove together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I whispered it in his ear as I drifted off to sleep in his arms. "I am also a person who can fall in love with more than one. I have done so."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After our storm of passion is spent, after we lie in each other's arms exchanging sweet nothings — no, not nothings, sweet everythings — Mary always falls asleep readily. It is as if she has temporarily exhausted all of her worries in the most pleasant possible way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lately, I am not so blessed. Though the thoughts that raced through me were frightening, they were also exhilarating. The ball had most decisively been thrown into my court now, and it would fall to me to put the matter to Holmes. The matter that I had so long kept quiet and swept away, confident that it must never, could never come to light. I could still decide to let it lie. If I decided it was too great a risk, I could do that. Holmes and I would, I hope, continue to be partners in crime-solving, and continue to maintain a cherished friendship. Yet Mary would be disappointed in me — and if Holmes knew what could have been, he very possibly would be even more so. And I would go to my grave bearing the weight of a missed opportunity. My heart would be much heavier than a feather, in the reckoning of the ancient Egyptians.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To allow myself to think of Holmes that way, even with the feel and the taste of Mary still on my lips, felt like a grave transgression although my permission couldn't have been more explicitly granted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was difficult to sleep, on the cusp of such a delicate endeavour. Holmes has his complicated problems of crime, but this was perhaps the stickiest one I myself had taken on yet. Perhaps I should allow him to deduce my lack of rest, and surmise for himself the cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As I left the Watsons' townhome, my mind was racing. Mary had been nothing but cordial and kind to me, and in our conversation, I perceived very little of deception. She was very young when she left India, but what memories she had overlapped well with my travels, and she was rapt to hear of stories about places she had never been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is formidable. She is a very intelligent woman, and although I know now that she was deceptive in this endeavour, I know it is not her general nature. I do not suspect that she has any selfish or malicious motive. And yet — her behaviour would be consistent with that of a married woman who wished to be unfaithful — yet it was obvious as soon as he arrived that Watson was complicit in whatever game she was playing. If I get myself past the hurt of knowing they both attempted to deceive me, I know I would find some deeper and more potent truth underneath their surfaces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I know they have set a game for me, for they said so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do not believe they wish me harm. That would be the most obvious assumption, and yet all the evidence I have of them compels me to reject that first and most obvious conclusion. Then I considered that they wished to play pranks on me, in a kind of revenge for the hurt I had given Watson  -— and if revenge it is, then it's revenge that was more gentle than I deserved. This was much more plausible — and if that is their wish, surely I can let them have it. Yet Mary has very little of guile in her, and her warmth and cordiality in our conversation had not one whiff of insincerity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is one other possibility that springs to mind, though not without some difficulty, because it seems highly implausible if one is to accept the surface impression of respectability that the Watsons naturally emit. So implausible indeed that the very realization of it sent a small, quick flurry of shock through my system. Yet, when I came to eliminate the impossible, it remained intact. I did not dare to hope for it — and yet, it stubbornly refused to be eliminated, no matter how hard I put myself through my paces of strict intellectual discipline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One thing to keep the art of deduction true — one must never lie to oneself. I have been very strict, all my life, to maintain my emotions on a short lead, and to guard against any possibility that wishful thinking might ever poison my reason. Though much as it pains me to admit it, I am a human being, and part of that condition of being comes with the fact of wishes. And some often seem to be completely impossible, and therefore must be eliminated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I never succeeded in fully eliminating my wishes about Watson. So volatile and so potentially damning were they, I had tried to lock them in a leaden chest, bind them with chains, and throw them in the sea. They always washed back upon the shores of my thought — angry with me. The years I spent on the other side of the world from him only served to strengthen them. To see him again was to hear their bitter laughter ringing. Oh yes, I also am a victim of poetic fancy from time to time. He brings it out in me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One thing was certain. I had to wait for what he brought to me next. I must set myself as a trap, with patience. Watson is also rather lacking in guile — oh, he can fool a fool who does not know him, but there is very little chance he can fool me. What he can do, even after all this time, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprise</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. I had to repress my most maddening curiosity for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tried to force myself to sleep, and I mostly failed. No point in that, when my brain is buzzing with a problem that will not rest. Far more than my past cases, this one drove me onward, for I felt it concerned my own future — my own heart and my own life. John and Mary were trying to tell me something. Clearly it was something that could not be said outright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In my brown study, I would naturally assume that they had decided to banish me from their life, because the influences I brought were damaging and worrying. I know that John had nearly lost Mary, and the fragility of her health would be more than reason enough to keep her husband close to home and out of the way of harm from criminal London. This would be natural and logical and I could hardly blame them for it. Yet, if that was their intent, they would not have set it up so. Neither of them was cruel. If they had to impart such a harsh truth, I think they would say so straight out. Watson certainly has the courage to speak frankly, and I have no doubt his wife does as well, or else he would not have married her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So by all reason I should banish that thought as wildly unlikely. It did not fit what I knew of either person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the only other possibility I thought second most likely was so wildly unlikely, I could not give it credence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I would have to wait for Watson, when he accepted my invitation to the opera - for I thought a notorious conman would be watching from the wings during the entire performance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My luck could not have been better. Holmes invited me to the opera, to his own private box seats. We were, ostensibly, on the trail of a notorious coiner, who had set himself up as a wealthy patron. I thought, as Holmes's cases go, it was weak and not particularly interesting. In hindsight, it should have occurred to me to wonder why Holmes would take up a case that was so far beneath him. It would have been clear that in some sense, he was playing me as well. As much of a thrill as it is to watch him on the trail of his "little problems," it was even more so to know that I am the real object of his deductive study.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I would have the opportunity to be with him while he listened to exquisite music, and his sensual rapture in those moments had always been a privilege to observe, even before I came to my revelation about the nature of my own regard for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the soprano began to open up to hints of the heights she would soon reach, I thought of Irene Adler — a worthy opponent for Holmes in intellect, but never really an adversary in goals — indeed, far more deserving of Holmes's help than the king who had commissioned him. I thought of how funny he'd found it that he wound up a disguised witness to her wedding, and how he'd wished the couple well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I regretted that neither of us had had the opportunity to hear her sing. This lady would have to do, and she was magnificent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while I thought of her, I looked over at Holmes. He was obviously happy, listening — but not fully entranced. I realised, while this lady was a most brilliant singer, she was not sending Holmes into the level of rapture I would have hoped for. For the simple reason that her instrument, well-trained as it was, was not the violin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it dawned on me that Holmes was playing his own game. That he might have lured me here under pretenses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I waited until the lady's aria was concluded. I felt I owed her that much respect. In fact, the entire company was so good I felt obligated to wait til intermission. And when that time came, I suggested to Holmes that our cover might be questioned if I didn't order us two glasses of wine. He nodded and brushed me off, his eyes still fixed on stage left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the lamps flickered and the curtain opened again, Lord bless me, I sat there far longer than I should have, slowly sipping my wine, lost in the music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes's chair was not so far away from mine, but farther than I would have liked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not a smooth motion when I reached out to take his long white hand in mine, pull it to my lips, and kiss it. It was clumsy. I was trembling. But I achieved it. And when my mouth touched his skin, I knew immediately that any regret or fear I might have felt was well paid for in my joy. And in the look on his face, in the corner of my eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drew a sharp breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We sat there, together, listening for the rest of the entire third act. I did not let go of his hand. He briefly tried to pull it away, when he thought it was expected of him, but my grip let him know I'd rather he didn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I le</span>
  <span>t</span>
  <span> his calculating eyes work upon me the entire time. The denouement of the opera was disappointing, in my opinion, but Holmes's response was not. "What about the coiner though?" I asked in a whisper. He blinked, startled, for just enough of a tiny fraction of time that he realised I had caught him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Captured," Holmes finally said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes told me everything. When the audience was focused on applauding the curtain call, I pulled the cord to draw curtains closer around our box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You were playing a game!" he said to me, nearly accusing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," I said. "And for me, this is the most frightening moment. I trust you to deduce my true intentions. And Mary's. I would never dare to impose on you, Holmes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You could never impose on me, Watson," he said softly. "Any desire of yours, I would —"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then allow yourself to see what we mean," I choked out. "Implausible but not impossible."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, I suppose we should find a different place to talk about this," he said, flustered, his hands fluttering. All the peace he had experienced in the music had seemed to dissipate in his anxiety, and I found that upsetting. It simply wouldn't do. We had come so close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you," I blurted. His reaction to this was so satisfying that I couldn't stop myself from pressing further. "I want you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Watson — "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Call me John, sometimes, please!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I —" he said. That was all he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I said was, "Shush, Holmes, the crowd is dissipating." I pushed my chair closer to his, and in the shadows below the edges of our box, I took his hand and I held it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never missed a cue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I knew him well enough to recognise some of his own ploys. And I was gratified to see that he had missed the most important one of mine. He tried to withdraw his hand. I resisted, gently, for the simple reason that I enjoyed holding hands with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you really want to pull away?" I finally asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Eventually we must," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course. Eventually. In public," I said. "I'm calling your bluff, Holmes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up at me, with a tense and tight expression in his keen grey eyes. "You're a married man, Watson."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," I said. "Twice over. I have two spouses of my heart. I have been told I'm allowed to have both, if the other will have me. Oh. I'm not saying this well. Damn." I stood up and fluttered in frustration. He wasn't deducing it immediately, and that frustrated me. He should have been able to read it from the mud on my shoes and the wear on my gloves. Why were his deductive skills failing us now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We must discuss this elsewhere," he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course. I suggest Baker Street, if you don't object."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mary — ?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Knows that I may not come home tonight, if things go well."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anything, now, I have greater confidence in my skills than I did before. Everything Watson suggested to me confirmed the theory I had felt most confidence in, but barely dared to allow myself to accept. Even in the hansom cab, with him by my side, his right thigh pressed more tightly to my left than was needed, I still scarcely dared to believe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I realised that I was now on the threshold of understanding that being afraid to believe all the evidence of my observations was more irrational than accepting the miraculous truth laid out before me. That if I let go of a habitual fear of wishful thinking, I would actually be able to see more clearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watson's hand slowly, fearfully drifted towards me, and slowly crept onto my knee in the shadows. Its warmth seemed to infuse my whole body when it settled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We spoke no more on the ride. There was, I fancied, a sense that what needed to be said required a place that felt like ours alone. Obviously it was Baker Street. I resorted to some of the techniques of breathing I had learned in Tibet, to clear the mind and release fear and nervousness. When more oxygen entered my brain and I was able to perceive the natural flow of time as a comfort, I felt better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we arrived and ascended the familiar stairs, Watson was very solicitous of my comfort. He pointed out that I was trembling — which I was already quite aware of, and had rather hoped he wouldn't notice — and made certain I was set up with a pipe and two fingers of brandy. Since it was past Mrs. Hudson's bedtime, he lit the fire, just as he had done when we shared these rooms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we were sat at last in our accustomed chairs, the question he asked was not one I expected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holmes," he said. "What went on in your mind after dinner with Mary, when I was not there? You obviously knew that we had set up a mild ruse. What were your theories?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It doesn't matter," I snapped. "All of the worst of them have been proven false."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seemed to melt then, and relent. "Did you think so badly of me? And of her?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I knew you were playing a game," I said. "Of course I had to be suspicious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We thought you would like that," he finally said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should have done," I said, laughing at myself. "Had I not been so — well, never mind," for I could not find the word. "She was charming, and it must be said, so very warm and open, so much so that it nearly seemed she was trying to seduce me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She was, you pillock!" Watson blurted with a smile. "In a certain sense. On my behalf as well as hers. But I think she believes that was a dead end. So the heavy lifting of that important task must fall to me. For, as you must remember I said not long ago, I want you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chimes of his syllables reverberated around in my mind like the tolling of a huge bell. This was the moment of reckoning. Denial was long past. My heart began to beat so fast I feared it might burst before I had the chance to collect that which I had most craved. But Watson read my look, and he rose from his chair — I saw his hand prop himself on the armrest to compensate for the tremour of his leg — and then he was before me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asked me a question with his eyes, I answered with my own. And then I felt his hand at the back of my head, so very gently turning my face up. And then there was the tickle of his moustache a slim second before his lips on mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sparks burst down my spine, and I was quickly rising up to meet him. At the first touch he shied away, and then came back, firmer and more masterful. A few seconds of that pressing softness, and I opened to him, turning my head to fit with him better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first press of his tongue at the edge of my inner lips nearly undid me. I wanted to pause, to question, to confirm — and I suppressed that impulse because it felt so good I could not bear to break it. My own tongue rose up to lick his, instinctively, without the input of my brain, and I could not contradict it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moan he gave was incredibly rewarding, and I answered with a non-word of my own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he drew back, I found that my own hand was at the back of his head, his silken hair taut in my fingers, and I did not recall putting it there. I did not want to let him go too far. His eyes were so beautiful — his eyelids heavy, his pupils dilated. Ever the gentleman, he started to second-guess us. "Holmes — if you — "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was gratified to see he was almost wordless, as was I. His true desire was palpable — his breath, the angles of his body with his hips turned towards me, the tightness in his trousers. All that from one kiss. The last of my resistance to my favourite theory fell away in that moment, and I nearly sobbed. It was one of the most intense emotional experiences of my life, ranked slightly higher than the moment I accepted my own death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nodded at him and then tugged at his head again, requesting more kissing. I felt we were speaking to each other more eloquently in that way than we could by words. He sank into me again and indulged me for a good long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when Watson drew away again, he seemed to have a sense of purpose now. Carefully, so carefully — too carefully — he whispered. "Holmes. I would like to take you to bed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had never been filled with so much fear and so much joy at once. It was rather overwhelming, because I still maintained enough reason at the edges of my mind to read his absolute sincerity, his wholly honest desire. For me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was all I could do to whisper. "Yes. Of course. I would like that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes was indeed as skittish</span>
  <span> as</span>
  <span> a colt. As was I. I would never have dreamed this could be, even as much as I longed for it. But he put himself in my hands, and so I led him to bed — in his own bedroom, which he knew far better than I. Even as I stumbled and tripped on his clutter, I knew he trusted me to lead. Lord knows why. I pushed his jacket from his shoulders and let it fall on the floor — and he countered by doing the same to me. That small motion seemed to unleash something in him, and he was no longer frozen, but active, undressing me as eagerly as I went at him. We had seen each other in stages of undress before, but this was something new, as we unveiled each other with intent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All I wanted was to see him in his glory, and yet I was still hesitant to reveal all my scars and lumps, now that I knew I had his full attention. His scrutiny was so exacting, and so occasionally so honest as to be unkind. Yet there was none of that. His keen grey eyes raked me hungrily in the pale gaslight, and his hands, once given permission, traced every inch of my torso with an intense and focused reverence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he was beautiful. His lean body was graceful, arching into mine when I pulled him close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I would like to have said we were able to make love all night long, but the truth is, we were so highly-strung from our emotional exertions that shortly after we drew each other down on the bed and entangled our thighs and held each other tight, fingertips digging into skin, we were so close to our climaxes that it only took a few moments of our hard cocks touching and hips grinding that we had both spent within moments of each other. I am glad I got to use my hand on him first, and see the expression on his face as he surrendered. First. I do think my own crisis had more to do with his rapture than the grind of our skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pulled him close and kissed his neck, disregarding the mess. I drank in his panting sighs and the taste of salt on his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wildly he clung to me, and I held him, murmuring my joy softly against him, listening to his overwhelmed breathing. "Watson —," he started to whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John, please," I said softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"John — I am sorry. When you said — what you said — at the opera — I could not respond. Now I — "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I kissed him again. Slowly. We tasted each other and breathed into each other, at more lazy leisure this time. I ran my hand up and down the curve of his lean spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I must say," he said. "I never thought I could say this. My love. My deep abiding love. Even if we can never have this again, I am so glad we had it once. John."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I kissed his forehead. "How can you still not understand? We </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> have this again. Again and again, Sherlock."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave a great sigh and went softly limp in my arms after this, and after a while of waiting to hear his reply, I realised that he had fallen asleep. Far from being offended, I was delighted that he had at least understood me enough to relax so deeply, trusting in me completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I felt unusually relaxed and tired myself, and it was with great satiated comfort that I closed my heavy eyelids. I was pleased to later wake up early enough to perform on him a slow and leisurely act of pleasure at dawn before we both had to rise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John came home well past ten in the morning, by his tired but radiant smile and the scent of him, I could tell that all had gone well with him and Holmes. He told me just a few of the pertinent details, though not enough to violate privacy to an indecent level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could not help but kiss him, and experience a taste on his breath that surely most have been Holmes, and it was delicious. "I am so happy for you," I said, my heart near to bursting. "Does he fully understand?" I asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not certain," John finally said, pacing away from me around the parlour floor. "I think he thinks you've given me permission to have — well, what is a mistress who's a man?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A master?" I asked, and if I could not stop from giggling, well so be it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's pleased about that," John said carefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I should hope so," I said. Yet our full intent was not yet made clear to him. This was perhaps the most difficult part yet. I sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t very well get him a ring, can we?” John asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can, but he can’t wear it without leaving himself vulnerable to questions, I’m afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I admit, I was a terrible nervous wreck when John brought Holmes home to us. Our cook had made a delicious dinner — not me this time, oh no — and I worried I wouldn't be able to eat a bite of it. I was flustered about Holmes not having the things he needed to feel at ease. It's not as if we could bring all his files and his chemicals and violin from Baker Street for one evening alone, though I would have been willing had it been feasible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(When I had expressed this worry to John, he said only with a little smile, "I will not allow him to bring the cocaine, if that's what you're suggesting." I suspect he was mocking me, that incorrigible man.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because of course the dinner would be fine, and the wine would be fine, and the company and conversation would be fine. Those things were not the problem, never had been. The problem was that John and I were conspiring not only to seduce a third party, but to draw the third line of the triangle, and let him know that even though we certainly could not all be married in the eye of the church and the law, as far as we were concerned, we were bound. In sickness and in health, for better or for worse, til death do us part. (And though Holmes may play the rational freethinker, I insist, not even then.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no etiquette guides for this. I had not been trained. No governess gave us a guide of how to behave in this situation. I had no well-practiced rites to fall back on, and there was no polite expectation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard the door downstairs unlock. I heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs — both well-known. That sound, more than any other, put me at ease. I felt my shoulders relax and my spine loosen, instinctively. I knew these men, and they knew me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John bent to give me the customary kiss on my cheek, and I turned my head so he caught my lips instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glimpsed quickly at Holmes's diverted eyes. Was he trying to be respectful? Was he pained? The latter possibility was intolerable to me, and I went to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He extended his hand with courteous formality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bypassed that entirely and lifted my hand to his face. His gaunt cheek felt concave against my palm, which naturally flowed into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gave his face a slight caress — I couldn't help myself, it was dear to me — and something melted in those keen grey eyes. Oh, I would not force my attentions, but I could not bear his sad formality. I leaned in, I leaned up on my toes and kissed his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding his eyes, I parted my lips. I had no expectations, but I still wished to send an invitation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned in for a second, I am sure of it, and then drew away again. In a matter of several long seconds, he had recovered his wits well enough to give me a wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I would accept that. And I returned it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We had a lovely dinner. I shall spare the details, for the fact that we have always been able to make delightful conversation, the three of us, is a long-known fact since the very moment we all three met, so many years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What happened after is the most important part of our unconventional courtship. I will say this. We were a little bit into the port when my John decided that he wanted to kiss Holmes, very badly, and so he did. And Holmes's eyes closed briefly, and then darted over to me. Even after all, I think he expected the worst — and when he saw nothing but happiness on my face, that is when he truly began to relax into the revelation he'd put off for so long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He beckoned me over to them, then. And I went, just as gladly as I did to my first wedding. "So it's true, then," he said, incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Holmes, honestly!" John cried. "You doubted me. You must have thought I was lying to both of you! Surely you know me well enough now to have eliminated that as an impossibility very early on!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I vouch for him, Sherlock," I said, using his Christian name to deliberate impact. "Read me. Deduce me. I have nothing to hide."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mary..." he finally said, after his eyes had studied me and his great mind had worked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," I said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cannot well describe all the emotions that played over his face. I can only say there was an exquisite combination of fear and joy, and out of that battle, joy emerged the clear winner. His eyes slightly reddened, and I saw my John had seen this too, and drew him into a soft, lingering, most reassuring kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We invited you to spend the night," John finally said to him, so very softly. "We meant with both of us, although if you find Mary's presence inhibiting — "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I assure you I will gladly bow out," I said. "Often men do not realise how happy a married woman can be to have a night to herself with a good novel."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock — for that is how I will think of him now — took a few moments to blink, and then, to his credit, I saw him let his hesitance in speaking freely go.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If it's all the same to you, Mary — I would like to have you there. My past experiences with women have led me to believe that I am not what society believes a man should be, but I know that you are wise enough to not give a damn about what society believes. I will strive to meet your expectations as long as you keep them low."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have no expectations at all, Sherlock," I said. "I only have hopes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John, bless him, took my cue. He kissed Sherlock again, this time with a little more force.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We went into the bedroom. We knew our master bed was large enough for three people, especially with one as thin as Sherlock. We knew Sherlock was inclined to be skittish, and that was why John took out a pair of pilfered handcuffs, and waited for the assent in Sherlock's eyes before cuffing him, as comfortably as possible, to a bedpost, with lots of pillows beneath to support him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I let John do most of the work of undressing him and coaxing him, while I stroked his hair and whispered in his ear, kissing every chance I got. I tasted the skin of his neck beneath his earlobe. I held him and kissed him while John stroked him and sucked him. He expressed some curiosity about my breasts, so I let him play with them dispassionately, and became gloriously aroused at his attention to my nipples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I noticed he had taken his eyes away, and then saw that he was intently watching John's fingers, creeping their way up my thigh to my cunny. He was rapturously fascinated in watching John's hand doing its familiar in-and-out as he fingered me, and in hearing my little moans and sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was as stunned as anyone when he asked John, and me, "May I try that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I admit, I was concerned about drawing the third point of the triangle, for I thought that Holmes had no interest in women at all. What our night together revealed was that he had no interest in the rigid rules of proper courtship between men and women, and no interest in playing the conventional male suitor. But when in the intimate presence of a lady he already knew and respected, the wife of the man he loved, who was very open about her own interests, he at last felt able to express his natural curiosity about a body shaped very unlike his own or that of his most-desired partners. In that bedroom — cool in temperature but very warm in affection — he delighted in being taught how to give that body pleasure. (I helped, of course.) And it was very gratifying to see his utter abandon when she reciprocated</span>
  <span>. </span>
  <span>(I helped, of course.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, at his request, we released the handcuff. He wanted to use both his hands, and expressed regret that he had only two. No matter, between the three of us we had six, as well as three mouths, so there was nothing that could not be accomplished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we woke up together, there was nothing of awkwardness that showed on our faces. The issue now was only to convince him that the complete contentment we all felt then, holding each other, was not some never-to-be-replicated fluke, but what we all earnestly desired to be the first morning of the rest of our lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no words for the expression that crossed Sherlock's face when he opened the package. A fine metal collar, to fit low on his neck, easily concealed by collar and cravat or tie. Engraved with a triad monogram sigil - the S, the J, and the M finely wrought into an elegant symbol. And below it, in a short V that fit neatly in the hollow of the throat, a single large and lustrous pearl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes— bright as stars in the shocked clouds of his face. "This is...this is one of the pearls from your father, Mary!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes," she said, her kind face radiant with joy and love. "What better use for it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I cannot accept this," he said. Although certainly he knew it was a custom-made item, and returning it to someone was not possible. "Mary, I failed in that case. I was not able to recover your treasure for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That case brought me a much greater treasure," she said. "The two of you. As the matched set that you are, so let's have no more of the folly of trying to separate you. I would have had only half of my father's stolen riches — instead, I have twice the portion of love. I am fortunate indeed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was speechless, for once in my life, at the feel of the cool metal around my neck. The way it nestled perfectly between my clavicles. The subtle lustre of the perfect pearl. The well-balanced design of the engraved sigil that combined our initials.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had to take a moment to compose myself, even as I held a hand of John's in my left hand, and one of Mary's in my right. I am not a sentimental man, but in that moment I did feel we were all making a vow. To speak words would not help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had never thought to marry at all — and yet I found myself with both a husband and a wife who were also espoused to each other, both of whom had made a bond with me that I could find no evidence to doubt, try as my skeptical mind might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, I was done with doubting. I leaned eagerly into both of their lips on mine at once, physically awkward as it was, and I thought only of our happy future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I imagined far ahead, if we should all manage to survive, a cottage near the sea with beehives.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p>
  <span></span>
</p><p><br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>